Wednesday, October 1, 2008

The Hunter

The other day I was conversing with a bastard towards whom I am socially obligated to be respectful. We were at a dull but elegant restaurant and I became rather bored with his inane ramblings about business and the sad state of the economy. I offered him some hashish, and after his eyes had returned to a normal size (I take it he was rather enamoured by my drugs--I told him it was the good shit because, of course, it was), we went outside and had a little smoke. It hit me hard and I began again to see the point of the world. The sun was setting and I was looking forward to getting nocturnal. It had been awhile.

Upon returning to the table, I reflected on the duck that was now inside me and told my companion that I would eat almost any bird. "Even a penguin?" he asked. "Especially a penguin," I replied. "I imagine they are best done on a rotisserie. Just imagine it there, in your backyard, rotating like a big, tuxedoed sausage, roasting in its own succulent penguin juices." He chuckled uncontrollably at the thought and wondered if it would taste more like fish or chicken. But it was not a joke.

And why must we always compare beasts? It was here I lost respect for him entirely and, like an angsty teen, stopped speaking.

It is odd that we humans are animals though I see the beast in me each and every day. And I know that I am supposed to reject this beast and dress him up in fine, tailored clothing. It is the necessity of living in this artificial world, I suppose. To hell with it. Let's get drunk.

When I'm drunk I am a rogue and I treasure my roguish soul more than I treasure my modified Lotus Elan. While most people spend their lives looking for comfort and money, I spend my life looking for entertainment and experience because I believe these are the only worthwhile things in our artificial world. So I dress myself up in fine, tailored clothing because I want to be the good shit and not the ugly shit or the shit that doesn't know any better. Those in baseball caps and printed blazers are swine; they are scavengers. But me, I am a large, exotic cat--come stroke me if you dare--and I prowl on penguins and drive real fast. The power to weight ratio of my car will knock the cap off your common, greasy head.

We are endangered. Our habitat is nearly destroyed. Where is the wildness? Where is the tall grass in which I can crouch before pouncing on my prey? It is gone and I am supposed to find my dinner at the grocery store. How convenient. How safe. How utterly boring.

Oh hell, I am still sitting here at this table, staring at my glass, starting to come down. He's still high as a kite--I told him it was potent, but he insisted on smoking gluttonously. I'll just feign a full bladder and then hop in my roadster and take off into the night. I need his business less than I need my precious night on the prowl. I'll follow that busty redhead in the tight black dress. She must be wild.

"Let's go hunting," I said to her. "At the grocery store."

She laughed uncomfortably and walked briskly to her car. To hell with her. In this city of garbage, would someone kindly tell me where hide the nymphs and pixies?

Fuck it. Let's get drunk and go to Tesco. I walked into the first pub I found and did three shots of Chartreuse for the Holy Trinity (and then I did another for the road). I then stomped off to Tesco and pushed a blue-hair out of the way to get a good cart. "I am the hunter!" I shouted while I kicked at the automatic doors. I grabbed all the 12-grain bagels I saw--expiration date be damned!--and a tub of chunky peanut butter. I topped up the cart with dark chocolate, cheese, and nuts. I laughed uncontrollably when I saw that Penguin biscuits were on sale and I took the whole stock. I would have a feast tonight.

In my periphery I sensed a security guard's stare. It was time to blow this place. With a snarl and a growl, I took my cart and charged at the door. No one dared get in my way. But in the parking lot I noticed a wobbly wheel on what I thought was my faithful cart--I suppose it was not built for such extreme speeds--and I heard the guards charging behind me. I gave a primal yell, but it was of no use. I knew that damn wheel would be my end and I was forced to abandon my kill and take off into the night. I grabbed two packs of Penguins and shoved them in my pockets. In a wild flourish, I threw my favourite yellow pocket square behind me.

Once out of the artificial lights, I stopped in an alley and took a good, long piss. I cracked open some biscuits and shoved them in my mouth. They tasted very, very good.

Upon returning home, my euphoria quickly wore off. I was sweating and frightened at what I had done. I tried to regain some sanity by watching a marathon of Britain's Next Top Model. What a topsy-turvy world! I was unsure how I could go on knowing that in my heart there was this caged and rabid beast. I do not know... It is in times like these that I reach for my laudanum and hope to feel fresh-as-a-daisy upon waking.

5 comments:

Anonymous said...

are you seriously real? hope for a million feminists to sit on your balls and make you pee on your favorite pocket triangle.

Nigel Tewksbury said...

Though it piques my curiosity, the act you describe sounds physically impossible.

Can we make those million feminists into 2 or 3? Although I think I have done that already in my youth...

Did you not read the part where I expressed my deep regret? Or were you too busy being a reactionary? Incidentally, you push the "shift" key to produce capital letters. Give it a try sometimes. If you are lucky, it will give your vague, vulgar images an ounce of credibility. Well, maybe not quite an ounce...

I am curious. Why should feminists be outraged? I believe women should be allowed to get drunk and wild too.

illbred said...

"When I'm drunk I am a rogue and I treasure my roguish soul more than I treasure my modified Lotus Elan. While most people spend their lives looking for comfort and money, I spend my life looking for entertainment and experience because I believe these are the only worthwhile things in our artificial world. So I dress myself up in fine, tailored clothing because I want to be the good shit and not the ugly shit or the shit that doesn't know any better. Those in baseball caps and printed blazers are swine; they are scavengers. But me, I am a large, exotic cat--come stroke me if you dare--and I prowl on penguins and drive real fast. The power to weight ratio of my car will knock the cap off your common, greasy head. "

love it.

Vigilante said...

I'm curious as well. Did you ever find out why, exactly, feminists should be outraged?

I consider myself to be somewhat of an enlightened female. And I like to get drunk. And wild. And morose. And obnoxious.

Not that I'm not obnoxious to begin with.

Is there something wrong with rubbing decency arse side up?

Kathy said...

Oh,Ladies, give up! You don't understand my Nigel as I do. He is a pussycat and not a wild beast at all! One must only go inside oneself and then come out again to understand him. Tsk, tsk...